Tulips and Roses
by The Rebellious Observer
Summary: One-shot romance story of Ron and Draco. Read and Enjoy. =o)


**Disclaimer**: It's hard to type with diamonds positively dripping off your fingers and falling on the keys, so I decided long ago to give up my mammoth fortune and relinquish my hold on the Harry Potter copyrights so that I could become a wandering hermit who hugs her computer every day. #hugs computer; speaks fondly to polite voice on the printer. Hypnotized now. "Yessss…paper…must refill paper…"# _Not_! =o) Come on now, people, of course I don't own Harry Potter or make any money off of it. If I said I did, I'd obviously be _crazy_, right? And I don't look _crazy_, do I? #Looks around with wild glint in eyes# Well, do I?! Ah, never mind. =o)

Reminder: People, this has slash. That means there's a **homosexual** relationship.

Author's Note: If you think Draco says "redhead" too much, then I just want to explain that I meant for it to be a sort of term of endearment (intentional or not) that Draco has for Ron, a name that he addresses the feisty Weasley (and which Weasley isn't?) by in his thoughts. Hope nobody minds. Also, keep in mind that this fic does have quite a few **curse words**, so if you feel that you'd be offended or uncomfortable by that, please click the back button now. =o)

Dedication: To the always-awesome Villain and her sudden craving for a Ron/Draco fic.

You rush by, a flash of pale white and deep crimson…such a startling contrast to the muted stone walls that you fly past.

You're hurrying to your solitary destination, completely focused on reaching your goal; but you always do that. I am not surprised.

I've known you six years, redhead; let's face it, I know you better than you know yourself.

I'm supposed to be the All-Powerful Harry Potter's Great Enemy, but it's interesting to know how he's usually the one to brush me off. 

It's you who responds, redhead.

You're a very responsive boy, dear, 

God save us.

You've disappeared around the bend beyond, but I stay my steady course, slowly roaming the empty walkway to Who-Knows-Where in the time of Who-Knows-When.

One step. 

Two steps. 

Three. 

And suddenly I have reached my next class.

I'm late, but I'm not bothered by that.

Nothing bothers me, redhead, except you and your thrice-damned trio of do-gooders, the self-proclaimed dominating force of this school.

You blasted gits.

Oh well, at least you'll get into trouble. 

I, however, won't. I've got amnesty in the Potions room. 

I walk in,

Slowly…

Slowly… 

Let you all deal with your envy.

'Sneer a little now' I tell myself, and that's exactly what I do. 

I smugly saunter to my place, with no fear of being chastised, like you. 

You're being talked down by the Potions Master (what's this make the count this time, dear? Two thousand, or a bit more?), and I am satisfied, for I am exempt, untouchable, like you've never been and never will be (at least not here). 

Here, I do what I want, when I want, without fear of reprimands or repercussions (which is only fit for a fellow of my stature, or so I've been told). 

Yes, that's it; I can feel the class looking at me in horrible fascination, and the "Hogwarts Holy Trinity" has been put in its place without my ever having to open my mouth. 

I am the best thing in this room, and I'll never let anyone forget that; there's no one slyer, smoother, more suave than me, and that's a fact. 

You might even call me a Modern-Day Prince. 

I know I do. 

Others call me demonic, but that's okay. It's got a bit of truth to it, and for that they'll all pay.

I've never considered what many call sins to be anything particularly wrong or shameful, anyway.

Take vanity, for example.

I'm a vain boy, and I admit to that freely.

I don't think of it as a vice, and I don't tell anyone anything otherwise.

I _like_ reminding people how much better than them I am, and though that might not be accepted by the "honor code" of the common people, hey, at least I'm honest, right? Well…about some things, at least.

If you've got it, flaunt it (to be cliché).

After all, why shouldn't I? I'm a Malfoy. 

I'm a cold-hearted son of a bitch, but no one can do anything against me. 

Not a damn thing. 

One word to Daddy Dearest and the unfortunate who crossed swords with me will have a very unpleasant experience with the Unforgivable Curses.

Only the Trio has escaped thus far, but not for long.

Your time will come.

I will have great fun watching you die, redhead, when the day comes.

I have the power here, and everyone knows it.

I am the best…

I think. 

I'm pretty sure. 

Perhaps.

Damn you, why do you and your little group feel the need to plague me so?!

You're always there, with your lofty ideals and sentimental sap, shoving it at me, right in my face, and you won't relent!

"Oh, the Muggles, the Muggles! The Poor Little Dears. We must take care of the Muggles!" croon the kindly hags and the hopefuls and the blasted little heathen-lovers.

Shove it, gits.

Damn it, Weasley, you're a _pureblood_.

You're a poor pureblood, but you're still better than this! 

Have some pride, man.

You could be great, if I wanted you to be.

Given time, I could help you. 

Mold you. 

Shape you. 

And, if I felt the need, I could also break you.

I never would have considered "taking you under my wing" (a dead metaphor unworthy of me, I know) a decade ago. 

A few years ago. 

A few months ago.

But I've grown softer here at Hogwarts, and now I'd accept the task because…you intrigue me, redhead. There is some potential in you, but you need someone like me to bring that out. 

I'd make you wonderful, Weasley.

If you had any brains at all you'd sense my change of mood and seize your opportunity. 

Take advantage of my lapse in sanity while it's still there, redhead. It could be gone tomorrow.

But then again, it could be a lifelong thing.

It doesn't matter; you've never had cunning enough to grasp at the chance of betterment.

You don't even realize anything's changed.

I wonder why we had to have this class together again this year.

I'm not sure I'll be able to restrain myself from one day charging over to you to strangle that perfect little neck of yours until all your noble thoughts have been purged.

But then you'd be dead, and, all of a sudden, I'm not so sure that's what I want.

Maybe I shouldn't think so much.

Thinking only leads to further questions, like why I haven't been able to get you out of my head for the past five months, or why I find myself watching you intently every moment I think I can get away with it.

If I weren't so damn introspective, I wouldn't keep questioning the reasons I have for doing everything I do (or don't do, as the case may be, like poisoning your cauldron here and now in Potions class where I can get away with it, effectively ridding myself of the nuisance named Ron Weasley).

I can hear you, Ron, here across the room as I sit on this uneven wooden stool preparing ingredients for some horribly putrid monstrosity.

You're laughing in the typical, annoying Gryffindor fashion, head thrown back and mouth open wide, almost in tears with glee (no doubt brought about by something incredibly stupid).

I pretend not to notice how your neck arches just so, and I tell myself I'm not dying to know what sweet pleasures that mouth of yours holds.

Your merriment is soon put to an end, however, stomped into nothingness on the floor under Snape's angry heel.

"Weasley, twenty more points from Gryffindor for your gross misconduct, as well as a detention!" barks the Potions Master harshly.

He must be feeling particularly vindictive today.

You glare, and even though it's not even meant for me, I melt. 

I gush. 

I sigh.

I feel sickened at the realization that I think you look magnificent when you're angry.

Or when you're embarrassed.

Or happy.

Or sad.

Or…oh, Hell, let's face the facts: you look good anywhere, anytime.

What the fuck was that?

I did not just think that.

Right?

'Wrong!' chips in my thoughts.

Good gracious me, what's happening here?

Shit. Don't tell me I just thought "good gracious me."

I'm falling apart and it's not even lunchtime!

'Where's that good old Malfoy venom?!' I scream to myself.

I will not be sentimental.

I will not be poetic.

I will be a Malfoy, one of the members of that cool, condescending family of Pureblooded bastards that everyone loves to hate.

But…a Malfoy wouldn't notice the delightful shade of pink that blooms in your cheeks like blossoming rosebuds as they reach towards the bright Spring sun…what? I don't talk like that! I'm a Malfoy, Goddamn it, and Malfoys don't sprout poetry! 

…Often.

What am I doing to myself?

Do you see how you make me feel?

There's a constant battle raging inside my head, a torment come all from you.  

I hate you now more than I've hated anyone ever before.

I hate you more than I hate my father when he locks me in the dungeons "for my own good."

I hate you more than I hated Mad-Eye Moody when he almost broke my back when I was trapped in animal form.

I hate you more than I hated Harry-fucking-Potter when he snatched the snitch so easily from the air during the last Syltherin-Gryffindor Championship match, when it was almost in my hand, and my hopes for victory, just one fucking victory against him, were dashed. I almost cried, and I haven't done that since I was five and my father strangled my first pet, a messenger owl, just because he was angry and felt like watching something die. 

I hate you more than that right now.

It's not only that you live inside my head.

It's not just the fact that I imagine you and I doing wicked things in my dreams.

It's not even because I think I'm better than you, but can't stop wishing for a future with you in it.

No, it's not just those things.

I hate you, loathe you, despise you, spite you…simply because you're so damn happy.

You're poor and overshadowed by everyone you know, and, damn it, you're not exactly fundamental to the scheme of things, but you still manage to get up every morning with a smile, a stupid, lovely, delicious, real smile stretching from ear to ear, because you're alive, and nothing too tragic has happened lately.

You get homemade sweaters, food, and unimpressive trinkets and knickknacks during Christmastime, and, though I see sometimes it bothers you, you're still better off than I'll ever be.

You've got a people who care about you and your well being, and even though you lack for many material things, I'd trade places with you in a heartbeat, because…because…do you want to know something, redhead? Though I sit upon my horde of golden baubles and glittering jewels, I haven't got a soul in the world to give me even half the love you've got. And I'd give anything for it.

I shouldn't think these things; I usually stop my thoughts on the matter before the damage is too severe, but today I can't seem to do that, and this lack of control is because of you. 

I hate you for that.

I pour my evil-looking, foul smelling creation into the waiting vial (it's a good thing I could do today's lesson in my sleep, for all the attention I put into the making) and put it away, and then the bell has rung and there is a desperate rushing to the door as all the traumatized children flee (that is, until tomorrow, when they'll do this all again).

I'm out the door and there you are. 

The time is ripe to strike you down with venom-laced words, so I do.

"Hello Weasel. Potty. Mudblood. Enjoy the lesson?" I ask, words as sweet as honey as they roll off my tongue, and as scathing as you would expect from your sworn enemy (which I am).

Already you are incised, ready fly into a rage and to hurl your long-legged frame on top of me.

But when I think of it in those particular terms…a fight with you doesn't sound half bad.

I'll just overlook the fact that you'd rather beat me senseless after that delicious initial content, rather than kiss me shamelessly to achieve the same effect. 

"Shut up, Malfoy, I'm not in the mood for you're shit today!" you snarl.

"Oh," I say, in mock remorse.

"Then I suppose I'll go away until a more opportune time to bother you presents itself," I say, a trace of condescending amusement evident in my tone.

"Ignore him," says Granger to you as she gently holds you back, Harry's stronger hold reinforcing the statement as he grasps your other arm.

"Yeah," he agrees.

"Don't sink to his level," he says.

"Yeah, I guess you're right," you agree, visibly forcing yourself to relax your taunt muscles.

You fucking imbeciles! How dare you?!

How dare _any_ of you bastards think that you're better than me?!

My rage is a palpable thing, and the three of you step back.

Maybe you all are smart enough to realize that you've gone this far this time.

My earlier traitorous thoughts have made me angry too, and I just can't let this go.

I am better than you, than every single one of you, damn it!

"I suppose you three are so stupid you don't realize that, to come to my level, you need to be going _up_, not the other way around. But don't worry; none of you can ever hope to reach that level of importance, so don't concern your feeble little minds with matters above your station," I say, anger putting a faint tremor into my words, an unusual and (to me) disturbing occurrence in my normally-smooth voice.

I see my words warping your pale face to an almost opaque splash of tormented burgundy, and your two friends are no better off.

Uh-oh.

You don't need to be Trelawney to see lots of pain in my near future.

Where are Crabbe an Goyle when you need them?

Oh, yeah, they're off eating lunch.

The oafs.

But wait…the "noble" Gryffindors wouldn't dare let their tempers run away with them right outside the Potions classroom, in clear view of Snape, would they?

I point this out, and, apparently, I'm right.

I knew it.

My temper has calmed now, and I know the look I've got about me is confident and superior.

It always is; but then, you knew that, didn't you, redhead?

The three of you stomp away in simpering discontent, and I bide my time before I too head to the Great Hall.

Call me paranoid, if you will; just recall that I've been a Syltherin for over six years. We do what we must to get what we want (and for me, right here, right now, that means avoiding belligerents until I've got my cronies back from their meal break). 

I hate you, redhead.

*****************************************

I admit that I'm not perfect.

Okay, so I don't admit that to anyone but myself, but I do acknowledge the fact that I have a few tiny, completely miniscule, very unimportant flaws.

But I'm closer to perfect than anyone else you'll ever meet, redhead, and I can't see how you don't realize that.

One of these tiny, completely miniscule, very unimportant flaws is the fact that I indulge in procrastination.

This is the reason that I'm here in the library after dinner, working on my History of Magic assignment, a one-and-a-half foot recount of the history of the Hag Uprising of 1392. 

I didn't expect to see you here, Ron.

You usually do your last minute scrambling in your common room.

But there you are, immersed in a text half again as large as you yourself.

You think that you're alone; nobody's watching as you brush away locks kissed with deep red wine, and tuck them absently behind your ear, where they promptly escape from their flimsy hold to brush your cheeks once again.

No one, that is, but me.

I sweep in silently, till I'm right beside you, and that's when I strike, stunning my prey (that's you, my dear) with a typical Malfoy remark.

Now that I am assured you've been made painfully aware of my presence here, I wait for your response.

It is instantaneous, as always.

I'm not really listening as you make your feeble comeback.

I'd rather watch the way your lips move as you speak, and observe the way you lean slightly forward towards your audience whenever you're angry, so that's what I do.

Eventually, you seem to notice that my mind is occupied with something other than your retort, and this angers you even more.

Suddenly you've grabbed me to you by the front of my robes, and we're face-to-face, nose-to-nose.

Our breath mingles in the scant space between our mutual glowering.

My eyes flick involuntarily to your hands, still tightly clutching raven fistfuls of my clothing, and I quickly confirm the fact that you haven't yet let me go.

My eyes travel back up to yours and the glaring resumes where we left off.

"Let me go," I say evenly.

Coldly.

Dangerously.

"Make me, ferret!" you say.

I push you away with one mighty shove, but you take me with you, and we both fall with a dull thump onto the library floor.

There is a brief scuffle, but it is a silent one, though intense.

Neither of us wants to be discovered, isn't that right, redhead?

We must be good little boys and try our best not to lose House Points.

Fuck that.

I'll kick your ass, Weasley.

I regain my place above you as we roll on the floor, and raise up my fist for a fierce strike, but then you catch my wrist and yank me down, using your other arm to grasp the upper area of my other arm. 

I cannot believe your overwhelming impertinence, and I furiously bore a searing glare into your eyes… your beautiful, idiotic, dancing, mischievous, lovely eyes…

The anger drains out of me all in a rush, and, with no warning whatsoever, I stop trying to escape your hold.

You are confused.

I see it in the way your brows knit in puzzlement; the way your eyes slowly rake my face, searching for a reason for my odd behavior.

Even you're smart enough to know a Malfoy never quits, I'll give you that much.

Then I see a look more strange than anything I've ever seen before come upon you, and you are releasing me.

But not for long, it seems, for your arms then slide around me; I feel your long-fingered hands, soft and hesitant, flatten on my back and become buried in my hair, and you're pulling me down, down, down, to meet you, you and your beautiful pink mouth, in an electrifying first contact.

An explosion of tastes bursts in my mouth, and my mind reels while I lean further into you.

A bite, a lick, a fluttering of thick ruby eyelashes, is all my world knows as we clutch to each other like the desperate hormonal schoolboys that we are.

It's only lust, right?

Right?

Yes.

Yes, of course; I'm much too smart to go and fall for a Weasley.

I'll just ignore the way my hands to cup your face tenderly, as if of their own violation, and the way I wish this moment will never end.

It does.

We halt our steamy, groping progress after a few minutes…a few hours…a few years, maybe…and that's that.

Horror dawns.

How could we have just done that?

It was sick! 

Disgusting! 

Intoxicating…

Addictive…

Wrong!

But so very perfect…

We hurriedly detangle ourselves from one another, as if to erase what we've shared.

I slowly rise to my feet, as unruffled as ever (in true Malfoy manner), or so it must seem.

You warily do the same, looking cautiously at me as a hare does when confronted with a hungry fox, right before it flees.

Are you scared that we might relapse, redhead?

Scared that I'll kiss you again?

Well, in case you've forgotten, _dearie_, you're the one who started it!

Ninny.

I straighten my robes, as regal as I ever was before, and slowly walk past you toward the door.

You tense as I stop just beside you.

I try to collect my thoughts and wits about me, and then I reach a decision.

I've reconsidered my position on the matter of "us," and I've changed my mind.

I want you, you see, and a Malfoy always gets what he wants.

I brush my fingertips ever-so-gently across one smooth, rosy cheek, and you shiver slightly at my touch.

You look like you want to say something.

Your lips gently part for speech, but my fingers on your lips quiet you for a little longer.

"We should do this again, redhead," I say.

"It was fun. But Ron? Next time let's meet at the Astronomy Tower. How about tomorrow night, eight o'clock?"

You only stare in shock, too surprised to speak. 

"Good," I say, pleased, taking your wide-eyed silence for agreement. 

With that I brush my lips once more across your own, and then I am gone, leaving you, dumbfounded, behind.

"Bye…Draco. I'll see you tomorrow…" you whisper as I walk off.

I know you didn't mean for me to hear you, but I did.

An odd, warm feeling envelops my chest, and I quickly stifle my smile as soon as I realize that it's there.

Don't get the wrong idea, Ron.

Don't think that anything is different between us.

Don't think that the future is all tulips and roses.

My feelings haven't changed, understand?

I still hate you, redhead.

Sort of. 

Maybe.

Not really…

Author's Note: Hi there! Sorry the snog section wasn't longer…I'm not very good at writing love scenes. I'm working on that, though (romance novels, here I come! =o). I hope you enjoyed reading this fic as much as I enjoyed writing it. Bye for now! =o)


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